


Pardon The Way That I Stare

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CSSS, CSSS 2K18, Christmas Fluff, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Modern AU, Neighbors, cssecretsanta 2k18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 05:16:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17176610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: Emma Swan has found that when a guy seems to be too good to be true, it's better to stay clear of him. Killian Jones is that kind of man, but when it comes to him, her normally infallible sixth sense seems to fail.





	Pardon The Way That I Stare

**Author's Note:**

> Written for CSSS 2018 as a gift for distant-rose.

The first time she sees him, she's staring.

Peanut butter, chips, chocolate bars, cookies... the sandy-haired boy she sees at the end of the aisle definitely seems to have a penchant for unhealthy food, but what alarms her are the worn, not particularly clean clothes and the hasty looks over his shoulders as he shoves the items under his threadbare sweater.

Emma Swan, bail bonds person and cynic, freezes to look at the young, teen-aged shoplifter and realizes she's staring at a younger, male version of herself, and a heavy dread settles deep in her belly when an employee of the store suddenly appears behind the boy, blocking the way to the exit.

“Hey, buddy, let me see what you have there under your sweater,” he addresses him severely, his voice steely and bare of any empathy.

“Uh, I...” The boy looks like a deer in the headlights, and his eyes flicker to the exit, but the guy in the store shirt is blocking the way out.

Emma's hands grip the handle of her shopping cart like a vise, and her mind is racing, because she surely wants to do something for the boy, but can't think of anything off the top of her head, and before she can act in any way, a firm voice calls across the room.

“Here you are, Billy! I've been looking for you everywhere!”

Both the store employee and the boy whirl around to see whom the accented voice belongs to, and Emma turns her head as well. Another man has appeared from the side aisle, unerringly pushing a half-filled shopping cart towards them.

“What are you doing, lad, put that stuff in here with the rest,” he tells the boy in an authoritative tone, and the teen obeys, obviously completely flabbergasted.

The employee frowns. “You know this boy, Sir?”

“Yes, of course, he's my nephew. Is anything wrong?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Hm. No,” the employee grumbles and gives the boy a last, doubtful look.

“Come on, William, we're already late,” the man motions his dark head sharply into the direction of the checkout zone, and both disappear from Emma's sight as they turn around the corner.

She's pretty sure the mysterious savior hasn't seen the boy ever before in his life. She's also pretty sure it's been a very long time she's ever seen someone doing anything remotely as nice for another person, especially for someone many people don't even regard as a fellow human being, and it leaves her... yes, with a warm and fuzzy feeling in her heart.

Emma finishes her shopping, and ten minutes later she crosses the parking lot and heads for her car, an old yellow Volkswagen bug. This is one of the rare occasions she wishes her car had a few modern features, like electronic car keys to unlock it just by pressing a button. Instead, she has to place one of the paper bags with her groceries on the hood of the car to fish for the keys in the pocket of her leather jacket.

The paper bag is heavy, and her keys seem to be entangled in the fabric of her pocket somehow, and while she's still fumbling, the bag starts to slowly slide down the curved hood of the car.

“ _Fuck!”_ she hisses and leaps forward, but the tips of her fingers just barely brush over the side of the paper bag before it...

...does _not_ hit the concrete floor of the parking lot, much to her surprise, but is caught right before sliding off the car. Emma stumbles due to her abrupt move to save her groceries, and before _she_ can land on the ground most ungraciously, she's caught as well, a firm grip on her elbow balancing her.

“Whoa there, lass!” exclaims an accented voice.

All of that has happened in the blink of an eye, and when she's standing securely on her feet again, she looks up at the man holding her paper bag in his left hand and her elbow in his right, and now she realizes why the voice seemed slightly familiar. It's the man from earlier, the one who came to aid the shoplifting boy earlier.

She didn't really pay much attention before, because she was too distracted by the little drama playing out before her, but the man's blue eyes are exceptional and have sort of a hypnotizing quality. They're maybe not the bluest eyes she's ever seen, but they are of an intensity and depth that frighten her immediately. The kind of eyes that not only allow a glimpse into the owner's heart, but – and _that's_ the problem – seem to dive right down to the bottom of your own.

_Well, shit._

What she reads in them is sincerity and genuine concern, and now a bit of slightly amused confusion.

“Love? Are you alright?” he prompts and slightly squeezes her elbow, gentleness in his low, accented voice, and that's not actually helping. _Damn, pull yourself together!_ Emma realizes she's staring and resolutely wriggles her arm free from his hold. 

“Of course,” she replies a little more curtly than warranted and adds, because she _does_ have some manners, “Thank you.” Then she snatches her paper bag from his grasp and places it on the hood of the car again, this time securing it with her finger tips while fishing for her car keys once more. “I had it under control,” she murmurs a bit defiantly.

“I would never dare to insinuate otherwise,” the man replies, his hands raised in a defensive gesture, and he shrugs. “You just looked like...”

Emma glares at him. “Like what?”

Briefly, he rubs his index finger over a certain spot behind his ear. “Like you could use a... coffee?” He raises his eyebrows in question and gives her a hopeful look.

She's tempted, she really is; this guy is dreamily handsome, in a very down-to-earth way, with tousled, dark hair and ginger scruff peppering his chiseled jaw, and his mouth... she can easily imagine that mouth on hers, and a few other places as well. And what he did for that obviously stray boy back there in the shop... it touches a string deep inside her heart, an act of human kindness and decency when no one was there to watch or impress, that's a thing rarely seen nowadays. And _that's_ exactly the problem: handsome _and_ genuinely nice – that's just... _too good to be true_. Because this is one of the lessons in her life Emma Swan has learned the hard way: if a guy _looks_ like he's too good to be true, usually he's _neither_ good _nor_ true.

She smiles dismissively. “No, thank you. I'm fine, really.” Finally, she has managed to unlock the driver's door and loads her paper bags inside, glad to be able to avoid the melancholy look in those blue eyes.

Then she gives him a final nod, climbs into her car and drives away.

Emma's still thinking about the encounter when she heats up a can of soup later in the evening – which is about as much cooking as she ever gets done. The fact that she's able to sit here in the warm and eat warm soup makes her think about the stray boy stuffing all those cheap and easy consumable food items under his jacket, and her heart grows heavy when she asks herself where he might be now. Well, at least he _has_ something to eat and is not facing shoplifting charges, thanks to a ruggedly handsome man with a chiseled jaw and definitely _not_ the bluest eyes she's ever seen, with gentlemanly manners and a low timbre in his voice. Handsome _and_ genuinely nice. Whose phone number she could have at her disposal right now. She almost regrets her hasty departure, because really, what harm would there have been in sharing a coffee with a handsome and genuinely nice man?

Why has she turned him down again? Ah yes, _too good to be true._

But was that just a lame excuse of hers? Because, let's be real, all the guys she's ever been involved with – and there haven't been really plenty, because one night stands don't count as being involved – were never _genuinely nice_ to begin with; most time they were assholes from the get-go, and she just refused to see it, because it was just so nice to find someone to belong with. In reality, Emma Swan never belonged with anyone, and she probably never will, so there's that. And it has been a long time since she ever felt a stir of longing to find anything remotely like it. So why does she think of it now? She has no idea, and this meandering of thoughts is really pointless.

Grumpily, she finishes her soup, cold now, like her little apartment and her little life.

The next time she meets him, she's staring again.

A few days later Emma comes home late from the office – yes, working as a bail bonds person is never boring, except when you have to fill out all the paperwork of the week's perps. On days like these she definitely deserves to treat herself, which is why she's carrying a greasy paper bag with a grilled cheese sandwich in one hand, and x-large styrofoam cup of hot cocoa with extra whipped cream and cinnamon on top in the other hand.

The hallway of her apartment building isn't very spacious, and she does her best not to get grease on her scarf as she squeezes past the guy studying the numbers on the mail boxes on her way to the elevators.

“Ex _cuse_ me,” she murmurs grumpily, because really, why do men always think they own not only the place but literally _all the space_ wherever they stand or sit or go... or _exist_.

“Oh, my apologies, love,” comes the reply, and she whirls around when she hears the accent.

It's the man from the other day, and he's standing in _her_ hallway – well, the hallway of her apartment building – all dressed in black, in a woolen pea coat and skinny jeans, an equally black scarf wrapped around his neck. It's November, after all. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and his eyes even bluer than she remembers – still not the bluest eyes she's ever seen – as he's looking at her with an expectant smile curving his mouth. It's a nice mouth, actually. When he finally clears his throat, she realizes she's staring.

“You?” she asks lamely.

His smile grows even wider now, and it's getting to her, she can feel it. She doesn't know yet what to do with that. “Small world, right?” he says, and it sounds like he doesn't mind at all. “Are we really neighbors?”

“Neighbors?” Emma echoes and frowns. “Wait, are you saying you... _live here?_ ”

He nods, and a tuft of dark hair falls over his forehead. “Moved in this morning,” he explains.

“Uh... then I guess we're... neighbors.” She doesn't know what to do with _that_ , either.

“But where are my manners,” he suddenly scolds himself and extends his right hand. She sees he's wearing a silver thumb ring, which she'd normally find ridiculous, but somehow doesn't. “Killian Jones,” he introduces himself.

She tucks her styrofoam cup between her left elbow and her waist and takes his hand, and the grip is warm and firm, just the right amount without being too squeezy and imposing. “I'm Emma,” she replies, a little reluctantly, because normally she's not really the social type, and none of the residents in this apartment building knows her name, and she's been living here for two years, so it feels a little weird to tell her name to a stranger she's met three days ago on a parking lot. But then, he has told her his name first, and she guesses it can be filed under mere politeness to return the favor. “Swan,” she adds, “Emma Swan.”

“Swan,” he repeats slowly and tilts his head before he lets go of her hand, “extraordinary.”

She doesn't like that she _likes_ the way her name sounds when he lets it roll off his tongue tentatively, as if he's trying to figure out the taste of it, and so she takes a quick step back and saves her hot cocoa from its precarious position, taking it back in her hand, and nods almost curtly. “Guess I'll see you around,” she says and almost jumps into the elevator as its doors luckily open with a _ping!_

She doesn't hear his reply and shakes her head at herself when she realizes that she'd been running off again from a handsome _and_ genuinely nice man... _who happens to be her neighbor._

Inexplicably, Emma smiles at the thought. She'll see him around... and maybe third time's the charm.

But when she sees him the third time, she isn't staring... she's _glaring_.

She does see him around a few days later when she's about to leave for work... only this time, he doesn't see _her_ , at least not at first.

He's taking letters out of his mail box while speaking on the phone tucked between his right ear and shoulder. She hears him chuckle in that low timbre of his voice, and a warmth spreads in her belly she doesn't know what to think of.

“Aye, darling,” he says, “I'm very happy to hear that.” Emma's face falls a little when she hears the term of endearment he has for the person at the other end of the line. “Well, you know I always think of you.” That's the moment when her expression freezes, and his next chuckle sets her jaw in stone. “Of course. I'll come by later, Rosie. See you then.”

 _Rosie_. Her hands ball into fists. _Of fucking course_. The handsome _and_ genuinely nice neighbor who was nice to a homeless teen, who invited her for a coffee on their first meeting, who has been gently and decently flirting with her, whom she secretly contemplated to take on his offer if the occasion arose again – has a girlfriend. Turns out to be a genuinely _vile_ , cheating asshole. Well, seems like _too good to be true_ is indeed a thing, and she mentally scolds herself for thinking that maybe, just _maybe_ it was time for her to let go of that belief.

Either she snorts or makes another noise, or he just feels her presence with the instinct of the sneaking rat that he is; anyway, he turns around and beams when he recognizes her. The skin around his eyes crinkle, and dimples appear in his cheeks, and he looks so sincere and boyish that she'd probably melt on the spot if she didn't know that he's just a fraud. The warmth in her belly from earlier is replaced by nausea.

“Swan,” he greets her almost enthusiastically, and she relaxes her fists slowly and deliberately, the temptation to punch him is too strong to risk acting on it. He's not worth the trouble.

“Jones,” she presses through clenched teeth and shoves her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket.

He tilts his head in a playful way. “I missed you,” he has the gall to say.

“You'll survive,” Emma replies curtly and rushes past him without another word, without so much as looking at him.

During the whole drive to work she can taste the bile, the sharp anger and bitter disappointment on her tongue, and she gets annoyed at herself, because she doesn't even know why she lets it upset her that much – it really shouldn't have come as a surprise, Killian Jones is not the first asshole she's encountered in her life, and he won't be the last. He's a cheater, sleazy and fake – even though he's the most sincere-looking sleazy cheater she's ever seen... and normally she has a pretty good instinct sending all her alarms go beserk when someone's lying to her or being insincere. Maybe that's what annoys her so much: that he could have fooled even her. And that she had allowed herself for a second to ponder over a few tempting what-ifs: _what if he really is what he seems to be? What if I actually go have that coffee with him, and – what if it's not a complete failure?_

That proves to her once more that she can never be alert enough, that she's not prickly, but _wise_ to not trust anyone. _Thanks for the lesson, asshole._

Of course, it's her luck to met him again when she gets home from work that same evening.

She's looking forward to a glass of red wine along with her frozen pizza and maybe a binge watch of _Friends_ , and she can already taste the pepperoni on her tongue, when the elevator she's summoned opens its doors with a _ping!_ and she finds herself face to face with _Mr. genuinely vile_.

“Must be my lucky day!” he comments with a flirty grin (sleazy, ugh) and blocks the doors of the elevator. “To meet you twice in the same day!”

“Excuse me,” Emma replies icily, ignoring his approach and motions towards the elevator. He steps aside, letting her pass, but keeps the doors opened with his knee blocking the optical barrier.

“I meant to ask you something,” he tries again, ignoring her clipped tone.

She crosses her arms. “And?”

“Do you happen to know any good places to eat around here?” he asks, tilting his head and batting his ridiculously long eyelashes. The mere sight offends her.

“I'm not the going out type,” she tells him curtly.

“Thought so.” He nods and rubs his neck briefly. “I was thinking that maybe... we could... change that?” He throws her an almost bashful look, and _that's_ when she snaps.

“Listen, buddy,” she snarls, “what kind of _'I'm not the going out type'_ didn't you understand, or were you too busy fawning over your own irresistibleness to even _hear_ what I said?”

She sees his face fall in complete shock and feels a wild triumph in her chest when he raises his hands in defense. “Whoa, lass, I–”

It should have been enough, but she's in full flow now. Shooting her index finger at him like a bullet, she snaps, “I'm not your _lass_ and not your _love_ or whatever other patronizing name you come up with, save that for–” Quickly, she interrupts herself before she can say _girlfriend_ , because it's really none of her business, and also because she doesn't care _at all_. “Save that for someone who's interested.”

He's taken aback so much that he moves back a step, releasing the optical barrier. “My apologies,” he murmurs, “I really didn't–”

“You didn't get it,” she interrupts in a sarcastic tone, “you didn't _get_ anyone could _not_ want to go out with you.” Now _she_ is taking a step forward, blocking the optical barrier with her hand, because she needs to say her final piece. “Well, I'll gladly spell it out for you, Jones: take your charms elsewhere. I'm not interested.”

And with that, she steps back again and slams the button for her floor, delighting in his slightly wounded, completely confused expression as the elevator doors close in his face.

It takes her a few days, she has to admit to her shame, before she is remotely her old self again. And that annoys her, because why would she take it so personal that Killian Jones turned out to be such a disgusting jerk? It's not like he's cheating on her; his girlfriend – _Rosie_ – is the one who deserves sympathy, who has a right to be angry... but probably, she doesn't even suspect what kind of fraud her boyfriend is and lives in blissful ignorance. Emma thanks her luck that she found out about his true nature before she could invest more... _hope_?

Also, the fates seem to be smiling upon her, because for a few days there's no trace of him, and she begins to hope that maybe he has moved out again.

The next time she sees him, though, she's staring _again_.

She had to work an extremely exhausting, unusual long night shift – a stakeout that lasted until six am and didn't end with a really good outcome. So, when she gets home and buries herself under her blankets, the frustration keeps nagging at her and doesn't let her fall asleep right away. Two hours later, her exhaustion finally wins, and she dozes off.

After mere three hours of sleep she's awoken rudely by a rumbling noise and a woman's cry. She's so startled that at first she doesn't know what time of the day it is, where she is or even _who_ she fucking is, and she's already starting to ask herself if maybe was just a dream, when she hears the loud thump again, followed by a long, drawn-out moan, as if someone's in severe pain. Emma jumps out of bed, all senses alert, because this is New York after all, and she doesn't even know who her next-door neighbor is. For all she knows, they could be a serial killer – or right now about to become the victim of one.

Before she can contemplate what to do, the noise and the moan are repeated, and she frowns; something doesn't add up here, this isn't the sound of some sort of domestic violence: the woman's voice doesn't sound panicky _at all_ , and she starts to realize that what she first thought was a sound of pain, actually... _isn't_.

She rolls her eyes when she notices the rhythmic repeat of both noise and moans. _“Really?!”_ she huffs. Of course her luck would have it that her unknown, but obviously obnoxious neighbor is having a noisy afternoon fuck while she's trying to sleep off the frustration of her last failed stakeout. When the rhythm of the thumps is picking up speed and the moans become high-pitched cries with a certain urgency in them, she decides they're having a fucking _epic_ afternoon fuck.

Shouldn't people with a decent job be at work at this time of the day?? But then she realizes that a) she isn't at work either and b) it's Saturday. Surely they must be done soon?

“ _Ahhh... please... more!”_ the female voice all but squeals, and that's it.

“Not on my watch,” Emma presses through clenched teeth and marches right out of her apartment on her socked feet.

She bangs on the neighbor's door with her right hand balled to a fist, repeatedly. After a few seconds, the noises stop, and her lips pull into a satisfied grin. If her afternoon pleasure is interrupted, so is theirs. She bangs on the wood again, and a few moments later she hears a disgruntled male voice curse, and shuffling steps approach the door.

Emma straightens her stance and raises her chin, ready to pounce, when the door is opened. Much to her shock, she finds herself face to face with Killian Jones (but then, it really shouldn't surprise her, given her luck in general). His dark hair is tousled, his skin flushed, and his bare upper body covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and God, she _really_ didn't need to see this. Chiseled collarbones, well-rounded shoulders, and a generous dusting of now damp chest hair, narrowing down to a dark, fuzzy path leading south and disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants that are hanging dangerously low on his slender hips. Another visual she doesn't need.

“Can I help you, love?” his low voice, particularly raspy and a little breathless today, yanks her from her stun, and she realizes that she's indeed staring, _again_.

Her head snaps up to look at him, and she sees the annoyingly amused smirk on his face. “We're neighbors,” she blurts out and wants to bite her tongue for that stupid remark; she even forgot to scold him for calling her _love_ again.

He crosses his arms and cocks his head, eyebrows raised. “Aye, we established that already.”

“Uh, no,” she shakes her head and points her thumb over her shoulder, towards her own apartment door, “I mean, we're living next door. I mean–” Emma stops when she stumbles over her own words, and she's furious about that, because she realizes he makes her nervous – which is ridiculous – and she's furious about _that_ , too. With a sideways glance she catches the devilish glint in his eyes telling her that he noticed it as well. She throws her hands in the air in frustration. “What are you even doing here?!” _God_ , she thinks the moment the words have left her mouth, _couldn't think of anything sillier to say, could you?_

He sways his right hand out and tilts his head in a mocking imitation of a bow. “Following a lady's advice.”

“ _What?”_ She frowns, the confusion at least distracting her from staring at his bare torso and long neck.

“Well,” he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and her fingers curl into fists at her sides again, “ _you_ told me rather eloquently to take my charms elsewhere, so here I am.“ He brings up his right hand to rub the back of his neck in an oddly nervous gesture that doesn't fit in with the cocky demeanor he's displaying; he looks embarrassed suddenly. “If I'd known you'd take offense...”

Emma rolls her eyes. As if she cares. _Why are men always so full of themselves?_ “Oh, I'm perfectly happy,” she replies firmly and adds, after a short pause, “In fact, give Rosie my regards.”

“ _Rosie?”_ His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he doesn't comment further on her remark. “I would, but she's not here.”

 _Well, this gets more and more disgusting by the minute_. Not only did he hit on _her_ in spite of having a girlfriend, no, a few days after being turned down, he fucks someone else in his apartment that is _not_ his girlfriend.

She shakes her head and snorts. “Whatever.” Wearily, she rubs her hand over her eyes. “Listen, I've had a really shitty night shift, and I need to sleep. So maybe you could just...” She waves her hand vaguely in his direction, “Just tone it down a bit Romeo.”

He purses his full lips in an _almost_ apologetic way. “You're putting me between a rock and a _very_ _hard_ place here, Swan.” He smirks again in addition to his deliberately lewd remark. “Normally, I would of course do as you wish... but alas, a gentleman can't leave a lady unsatisfied.”

“A gentleman,” she spits and crinkles her nose in disgust, “right.”

“I'm always a gentleman,” he replies pointedly, “ _especially_ in the bedroom.”

Emma has enough, and suddenly she feels the irrepressible urge to remove herself from his presence. “Then gag her!” she snaps furiously and takes a step back.

The bastard rubs his hand over his chin, the ever-present scruff making a scratching noise against his palm, as if he's contemplating it. “Hmmm, worth a try.” He tilts his head in a nod, his eyes firmly boring into hers. “In fact, might do good for both of us.”

Wordlessly, Emma stomps back into her apartment and slams the door behind her, shaking with rage that seems almost a bit irrational to herself, because – apart from the disturbance of her sleep, why should she be mad at him? It's not like he's cheating on _her_ , she tells herself again.

After a minute or so, the noise and ecstatic sounds resume, a little muffled though, but even more enthusiastic, if possible. _Then gag her._ Emma is wondering if he actually _did_ that – _following a lady's advice_ – or if he's doing something else to keep the woman quiet. Against her will and much to her disgust at herself, she's seeing things before her eyes, more images she doesn't need, like Killian Jones clamping his hand over a faceless woman's mouth while he's fucking her brains out, pumping his hips into her again and again until she crumbles beneath him. She crawls back in her own bed, pressing the pillow on her face, and hopes to muffle the voice even more and to cool her hot face. She can't see herself, but she knows she's blushed crimson red, because she can't help feeling aroused by the unwanted images before her inner eye, and what is even _wrong_ with her??

She's incredibly relieved when it's finally over. But there is no sleep anymore for her that afternoon.

In the following weeks, there are no similar incidents; her neighbor seems to have gone completely quiet and undercover – she doesn't see him, and she doesn't hear anything from him.

Until, one day, her toaster stops functioning, and her bread burns, so she opens her kitchen window wide to let the terrible smell and the smoke out. Suddenly, she hears the familiar voice that strangely has been haunting her, and he seems to be speaking on the phone again. He must have his window open as well, or he has decided to take a breath of fresh air outside, on the fire ladder – which she totally gets, because she's doing that herself when she needs a break from everything. Sitting outside on the old blackened iron, far above the cacophony of sounds that is New York City street life, you only have to look up into the sky, and the illusion of being free from everything that weighs you down is almost perfect. It might be a bit cold for that because it's only a few days before Christmas, but well.

She doesn't want to listen, but she can't help her curiosity.

“I know,” he says in a warm, sympathetic voice, “it can be frustrating. Rosie, you know you're doing an amazing job, right? No, I'm not just saying that to make you feel better.”

Emma holds in her breath, not wanting to give herself away, even if she feels a little guilty for eavesdropping. She's fascinated and more than confused, because Jones sounds absolutely sincere... and her normally weirdly infallible sixth sense that always reveals to her if people are lying tells her he _is_ indeed sincere in what he says. It seems like she's listening to a different person than the one who threw lewd comments her way when she interrupted him during a heated sex session with someone else. That same guy is talking to his girlfriend now as if he's the most caring, supportive guy on the planet.

“Of course,” he continues, “I could, if you think it helps. Sure, I'll be over in an hour. Aye, maybe it's just...” The rest she can't hear, because either he has climbed back into his apartment or he has simply closed his window.

Emma shakes her head to herself, angered and confused, because her sixth sense must be at fault this time, there's no way he can be sincere in his support of his girlfriend and then on the other hand chase after _her_ and end up banging a random woman. Well, great. Now she cannot even rely on her sixth sense anymore. Or is it just that it doesn't work properly where _he_ is concerned?

She slaps her front with her own palm and tells herself, “Snap out of it, for fuck's sake!” The amount of time she spends pondering over her disgusting next door neighbor one way or another is becoming unhealthy, and she starts wishing she'd never met him.

A few days later, she hears him outside in the hallway when she's just about to leave her apartment. She freezes and stops behind her door, her hand already on the doorknob. He's obviously on the phone again as he waits for the elevator.

“Well, I'm off work tomorrow,” he says, “I could take the little ones to the zoo, what do you say?” Emma almost chokes on her own spit and presses her hand over her mouth to keep the cough inside. Did he just mention _children?_ This gets more disgusting by the minute. There are children involved.

He chuckles along with the _ping!_ of the elevator announcing its arrival. “Yes, I know you love me. Listen, the next time...” His next words are swallowed by the elevator, along with him.

Emma is standing for a full minute behind her door, staring into the void. _Children_. The bastard is not only cheating on his girlfriend, there are also _children_. In Emma's system of values, the well being of children, wherever they're involved, has _always_ top priority, and whoever jeopardizes their well being is lower than scum to her.

And then Christmas Eve arrives.

Late in the afternoon, she decides to treat herself, because why not, and hey, it's Christmas, after all. So, she decides to buy herself an XL pack of her favorite ice cream, leaves her apartment, and finds herself staring at her neighbor's back, his phone tucked between ear and shoulder again, as he's locking his door.

“I'll be right over,” he promises, “get everything ready.” There's that low chuckle again when he continues, “Aye, darling, it's gonna be hot and spicy.”

She feels hot bile rise in the back of her throat as he stuffs the phone in the back pocket of his jeans and his keys in the pocket of his pea coat.

“You're such an asshole,” she says without thinking, and he whirls around.

“Swan?” he gasps. “Bloody hell, you scared me to death!” Then he narrows his eyes, as if her words have just sunk in. “What did you just say?”

“You're a goddamn, selfish asshole!” she snaps, and the utter confusion on his face riles her up even more, because apparently he doesn't see anything wrong with what he's doing. “You have a _girlfriend_ and _children_ , and you're ditching them on Christmas Eve for the sake of some... some... filthy affair?! What kind of guy does that?”

His jaw literally drops. “Uh, I – _what?!_ ”

“You–” she shoots her index finger at him like a bullet, “You don't deserve having a family who's probably waiting for you right now, not _you!_ ” The moment the words are out Emma wishes she could take them back, because it feels like she's given away too much – because she almost added, _and others don't even have a family!_

He still seems completely flabbergasted, and again, it's confusing how utterly _sincere_ his reaction to her reproach looks. “Excuse me? My girlfriend and... _children_?”

Emma throws her hands in the air. “Yeah, of course! Rosie, the one you're talking to on the phone all the time,” she blurts out, “all sweet and caring and sounding like you really mean it, but in reality you're just another fraud and cheating asshole!” She balls her hands to fists again, as if she could physically restrain her own rage that way.

His demeanor changes from confused to... what now, _angry?_ He crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. “Oh, wow, that's quite the opinion you have there,” he comments, “based on what exactly? That you eavesdropped on a few phone calls, and I was trying to ask you out?!” His voice gets a bit louder, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. Yep, definitely angry.

“I didn't eaves–”

“Well, apparently you're _quite_ the investigator, aren't you?” he interrupts and presses his lips together, his now steely blue eyes fixing her, and suddenly she doesn't know what to say. He draws a deep breath. “Don't worry,” he goes on after a few seconds of oppressive silence, “I don't have a family waiting for me, so no harm done here.” He's so upset that his accent comes through more than usual, he pronounces _me_ almost like _may_. After another moment, he shakes his head and says in an icy voice, “Merry Christmas.”

Emma's doesn't understand a single word. Her sixth sense tells her that he's speaking the truth, but it doesn't make sense at all. She shakes her head to clear the cobwebs that seem to turn her brain into a useless sponge. He bends down to pick up a cardboard box at his feet she notices only just now.

“Where are you even going?” she blurts out.

He looks at her again, an unreadable expression on his face, until she gets uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Neverland,” he then says.

She snorts. “And what's that, some pick up joint?” She doesn't even know what made her say it, but the muscle in his jaw ticks again.

“No, Swan,” he replies quietly. “It's an orphanage.”

She's sure she misheard that. _“What?”_

He steps into her personal space as far as the cardboard box he's carrying allows it. “For someone who reads other people's characters by their telephone calls, your hearing is pretty bad,” he tells her, his voice rough and low. “I said it was an _orphanage_. For boys.” He raises his eyebrows. “ _Neverland_ , get it? Home of the Lost Boys.”

Emma's mind is racing: _Lost Boys? An orphanage?_ She thinks back to the boy in the grocery store and how he helped him. Could it be? If what he says is true, the talk about children she overheard would make sense, and it would mean that maybe... maybe he is not the asshole she thought him to be? She needs to know more. “But what... why...” She licks her lips and combs her hair behind her ears with both hands and starts again, “I mean, what are you doing there?”

“Cooking for them.” He tilts his head in a shrug. “ _With_ them. Indian chicken curry.”

She closes her eyes in embarrassment as the penny drops. “Hot and spicy?” she sighs.

He grins with benevolent irony. “That's how it's done.”

She nods, not really knowing what to say. After a few moments she asks, “Why?”

He frowns. “Why what?”

Emma swallows. “Why are you even... involved?” she wants to know.

He purses his lips and replies dryly, “Because unlike what you seem to take me for, I think I'm actually quite a decent human being.” There's no real resentment behind his words, and she has the feeling that there's something more about it. She keeps looking at him searchingly, and when he sees she's still waiting, he sighs and tilts his head in defeat. “When I was a child... a home like that saved my life,” he tells her and adds, “It's a good way of giving something back.”

Emma nods, deflated; there's really not much more to say. He is telling the truth, she can feel it... and this time, she doesn't even think of doubting her sixth sense: Killian Jones is an honest guy, she knows it now. And she has ruined the chance to get to know a decent, a genuinely nice guy for a change. She wants to slap herself when she realizes that her first impression of him was true; he was handsome _and_ genuinely nice – and, she remembers, she was looking forward to seeing him around and maybe get that coffee. _Well done, Emma_. She nods again and turns away to go back into her apartment, having lost the appetite for ice cream.

“Hey,” he calls her after a few moments, and she stops, surprised, and looks back at him over her shoulder. Unexpected for her, he smiles a little shyly almost and tilts his head. “Why don't you join me?” His expression is the same hopeful one as when he offered to have a coffee together at their first meeting on that parking lot.

Immediately and almost as a reflex, she shakes her head. “Oh, I don't know... I'm...” She shrugs and realizes how miserable that gesture feels. “I'm not very good at that.”

Killian chuckles. “At what, cooking?” he mocks gently, and she has a feeling that he knows damn well she isn't talking about her kitchen skills, but about her barely existing social skills. “I'm a good instructor.”

“I didn't mean–”

“I know what you meant, Swan,” he interrupts quietly, and she lets out a nervous little laugh and averts her eyes for a moment. “How about that,” he continues, “you come with me, but in your own car, and if you don't feel comfortable, you can leave any time, and no hard feelings.”

He tilts his head, a familiar gesture now, and scrutinizes her searchingly, hopefully. Emma studies his face, his expression open and yes, vulnerable, and struggles with herself for a moment before making a decision. “Okay, give me five minutes,” she says quickly and slips back into her apartment, before he can reply anything.

Once inside, she leans against the door for a full minute, overwhelmed and with her head still spinning, and tries to process what just happened. She meets a handsome _and_ genuinely nice guy, and of course when the occasion arises to get to know him, she gets cold feet. Against all odds, she meets him again, as her neighbor, and is just starting to warm up to the thought of getting to know him, when she finds out that he seems to be a fake asshole just like most other men. For weeks she thinks he's a scumbag – and treats him like one – only to find out that she was wrong, and he actually _is_ a decent guy.

“ _God,”_ she moans and and covers her face with both hands when she realizes that she has really made an idiot of herself. Embarrassment washes over her, and she debates with herself if she even dares to stand eye to eye with him again. But then she decides that it would be reprehensibly stupid to turn down another chance to really get to know someone better who might actually be _worth_ knowing. So she throws on a pair of jeans and her favorite boots, grabs a woolen coat and leaves her apartment again.

She has taken a lot of time, ten minutes at least, and half and half she expects him to be gone, but there he is, leaning against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, patiently waiting for her with a smile. Emma can't help but smile back.

He pushes away from the wall. “Shall we?”

 _It's now or never._ She swallows and nods. “Okay.”

She follows his Chevelle with her old yellow bug to an old Victorian house. After parking her car behind his, she helps him unload his trunk. Then they climb the five steps to the big, old wooden door. Before ringing the bell, he turns around to her. “Ready?”

She's secretly touched by his thoughtfulness and nods, and so he rings the bell. Only moments later, as if they were desperately expected, the door is opened, and a short, blonde woman, looking fragile and slender, greets them breathlessly.

“Killian, where have you been? We–” She interrupts herself when she sees Emma behind him, loaded with plastic bags. Her curious eyes sweep back to Killian with many questions in them.

“I'm sorry, but I couldn't find my cilantro,” he lies smoothly and steps aside, exposing Emma to the woman's scrutiny. “This is Emma, my neighbor,” he presents, nodding towards her. “She was kind enough to offer her help, if that's okay with you.” Then he turns to her with the tiniest devilish glint in his eyes, and they do seem a little bluer tonight. “Emma, this is my oldest friend Rose Green, she runs this place.”

Emma shrinks a little, tilting her head in a fatalistic nod. _“Rosie.”_

The blonde furrows her brows in surprise, but her vivid brown eyes sparkle in an amused, very benevolent way. “Sure, Rosie is fine,” she says with a shrug and reaches out to take one of the bags from her, “Emma, come in. It's a pleasure.”

Killian gives her a tiny, encouraging nod, and she draws a deep breath and follows Rose into the house. Immediately she's engulfed by the familiar mixture of smells, consisting of stale food, curd soap and old furniture. It's not unpleasant, but it evokes a lot of long-buried memories from her own childhood, many of them not exactly happy. The small hallway leads into a huge living room crammed with old, outworn armchairs and sofas and an enormous fireplace adorned with a multitude of red stockings. The room looks chaotic, but also unexpectedly cozy.

The moment they enter, they're swarmed by a group of maybe fifteen boys of all ages, welcoming Killian enthusiastically and loudly and eyeing her curiously, but not in an unfriendly way. With few words, she's presented, and after a few of the boys declare she can stay, she's swallowed into the crowd as if she belongs there. Emma watches Killian greeting them, and her heart tingles with pleasant warmth as she sees how he has a smile and a gentle word for each one of them.

“All right,” Rose calls out, clapping her hands, “let's get to work, like we planned. Those of you who were assigned to help in the kitchen, go with Killian, Emma and me. The others set the table, and I want you to do it properly. Then Belle will read you a story.”

Only now Emma notices another woman standing beside the fireplace with a friendly smile and a wave towards her. She waves back, and then Killian nudges her arm and motions with his head for her to follow him.

When they reach the kitchen, a huge room with an impressive stove in the center, they deposit all the food they brought with them on the counter. Three of the older boys follow them. After that, with her hands empty now, Emma starts to feel a little awkward, as she doesn't really know her way around a kitchen. Killian seems to sense her unease. He walks over to her, an apron in his hands, and smiles encouragingly.

“So, let's see,” he says and hangs the apron around her neck, stepping into her personal space. For a moment she's distracted by his unexpected nearness. “Tell me about your kitchen skills, Swan?” he prompts.

“I... I can operate a microwave?” she offers with a nervous chuckle, because yeah, that's about it.

He steps behind her to fasten the apron. “Maybe something else...” he suggests, the sound of his voice making the little hairs at the base of her neck stand up. “Can you chop vegetables?”

“Uh, I guess I can manage that,” she replies, and after finishing with the apron, the steps in front of her again and smiles brightly.

“Excellent!”

He provides her with everything she needs to fulfill the assigned task, and then he gives tasks to the boys as well, and they all get to work quietly and surprisingly efficiently. Emma starts to chop her pile of vegetables, and when she gets into the routine, she calms down a bit and tries to take in her surroundings.

The atmosphere is quiet and comfortable, busy but relaxed. Rose Green is working with the others, pounding spices with a pestle, checking on the boys every now and then. Emma notices that she's discreetly but curiously watching her, too, and she waits for some sort of inquisition that never comes, though. Apparently Rose senses that she's not too good at opening up to strangers and that it wasn't easy for her to come here at all, so she leaves her be and just allows her to accommodate herself to her surroundings in her own time. Emma finds she's starting to like that woman.

“How are you doing here, Swan?” Killian's voice startles her from her thoughts. He's standing right beside her.

“Trying not to cut my fingers,” she replies, “and not to make an idiot of myself any further.”

He grins boyishly and tilts his head. “Well, I'd say you're doing well with both so far.”

Emma chuckles. “That's a relief.”

He goes over to Rose to control the spices, nods in approval, and starts to mix them together. A few moments later, she notices Rose elbowing Killian and leaning into him, whispering not so discreetly at all, “So tell me, is _she_ the one you've been going on about?”

He scratches behind his ear and shuffles his feet. “Aye,” he then sighs, his eyes avoiding Emma's.

Rose rolls her eyes. “Cooking for the Lost Boys. What an ice breaker, Jones.” Then she shrugs. “But still better than alerting her with sex noises, I guess.”

Emma looks away, and Killian groans. “Bloody hell, Rosie!”

She throws her hands in the air. “What? You're a twit,” she tells him bluntly. “Should've brought her over sooner. She seems nice enough.”

Emma clears her throat now, a bit bewildered, but to her own surprise not really upset. “Uh... I can... hear you?”

Killian steals a glance at her and blushes hard, and damn her if it isn't adorable. Rose smirks. “Good!”

The evening goes really well, the food is delicious, indeed hot and spicy, like Killian promised, and she's again impressed by the cozy, familiar atmosphere in this house; it's really easy to forget that this is an orphanage. One of the young faces seems oddly familiar to her, and only after the dinner table is cleared and they sit down on one of the threadbare sofas for a minute, it dawns on her.

“He's the boy from the grocery store, right?” she asks, discreetly motioning her head towards one of the older boys.

Killian raises his eyebrows in surprise, his eyes following where she indicated. “Oh, you saw him that day? Yes, that's Felix,” he then nods. “I gave him this address. I didn't think he'd show up, he seemed too far gone. But after a few days he did.”

“He was lucky to meet you.”

He sways his head, and she can see that he's obviously not very good at taking compliments. “I didn't really do anything,” he waves her off, “I just gave him an indication.”

She scrutinizes him silently for a moment. “How did you know I was going to spend Christmas Eve alone?” she then asks out of the blue.

He raises his hand as if he's about to touch her hair, but then quickly pulls back again. “You had that... look in your eyes,” he replies after a few seconds and tilts his head with a smile, but doesn't explain any further. And it's not even necessary; after what he told her earlier – that a home like this saved his life when he was a child – it seems obvious that they have a lot more in common that she thought; _it takes one to know one._

Emma presses her lips into a smile and nods. “Rosie and Belle seem to be doing a great job here.”

“Aye.” He snorts a little laugh. “I'm only glad I never mentioned Belle in any of those phone calls, otherwise you might have thought even worse of me.”

Emma's shoulders slump a little, even if his tease was benevolent. “That's hardly possible,” she murmurs guiltily. “Listen, I–”

“Okay, guys,” Belle's voice suddenly interrupts the general chatter, “time for Christmas pudding and cocoa!”

Killian gets up from the sofa and holds out his hand to her in a completely natural gesture. “I can get you a coffee, if you like,” he offers, “or whip up some mulled wine?”

“Oh no,” she replies with a smile and then spontaneously takes his offered hand, “cocoa is fine.”

It's almost midnight when they get back to their apartment building, and Emma thinks she cannot remember a Christmas Eve in a long time she felt peaceful and warm inside like this, and let alone one spent in a group home.

When they reach their floor and come to stand a little awkwardly in the hallway between their respective apartment doors, not really knowing how to say goodbye – or if they even want to – Emma clears her throat and draws a deep breath.

“Okay, listen,” she begins, “I owe you an apology.”

Immediately, he holds up both hands. “Oh no, Swan, you don't,” he contradicts and puts one hand to his chest. “I was an arse. And I understand now why you were... wary about my approach.” he nods matter-of-factly. “I looked like a cheating prick.”

Emma chuckles. “Yeah. And when I...” She falls silent and motions to his door, suddenly embarrassed by the memory of him half naked and covered in sweat, when she'd banged at his door, interrupting his tryst with some unknown woman. She's not even surprised at the pang of jealousy she feels now, weeks later.

“Ah yes.” The tips of his ears turn bright pink, and he rubs his neck, avoiding her gaze. “That didn't make it better.”

“No,” she admits and buries her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, starting to sway back and forth on the balls of her feet, suddenly a little nervous.

Killian's head is still inclined a little, but he lifts his eyes to hopefully look at her from underneath his long lashes. “Would it maybe make it better if I told you I was trying to distract myself from that gorgeous woman living next door I had a crush on, but obviously wasn't good enough for?” he asks.

Now it's her turn to avert her eyes for a moment, a faint blush dusting her cheekbones. If she isn't completely mistaken, he is... _flirting_ with her now? “Definitely,” she replies.

He tilts head. “But it didn't work,” he admits. “I couldn't stop thinking of her.” _Yep, he's definitely flirting._

She licks her lips a little nervously. “Okay, I have a confession to make, too.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “Seems like tonight's the night for clearing up things?” Giving her an encouraging nod, he prompts gently, “Don't hold back, please.”

Emma licks her lips and draws a deep breath. “Okay, so here's the thing,” she begins. “When we first met, in the parking lot of the grocery store... I didn't shoot you down because you weren't good enough for some reason. On the contrary.” Somehow, it is important to her that he understands her reaction to him had nothing to do with his worth. He raises a questioning eyebrow, asking for more. “I may have shot you down, because you just looked...” she waves her hand aimlessly, searching for the right words, because she's afraid he won't understand, “I don't know... too good to be true.” She shrugs. “And I've found that when a guy seems like that, then usually he's neither good, nor true.”

Killian frowns and shakes his head in disbelief. “But why, I mean... what gave you that impression?”

She snorts a little laugh. “Do you really expect me to feed your ego? It's not like you need it,” she teases, well aware that his self-esteem probably isn't the highest; being an orphan herself, she knows the issues of self-worth. It's not easy to think highly of yourself when nobody seems to really care about you.

“Well, I know for sure you don't fall merely for a handsome face,” he motions to himself smoothly, “so there must be something more behind it than just my devilishly good looks.” He smirks, but only briefly.

It's easy to slip back into the habit of bickering, and she wants to reply something sarcastic, but then she sees the sincerity behind his eyes, the doubt that someone could deem him _good enough_ , and it touches her and feels so familiar, so _kindred._

Emma swallows. “Before we met on the parking lot, I saw you inside the store,” she reveals, “what you did for that boy. That was...” She shrugs, not knowing how to continue.

“Basic human decency,” he replies, clearly embarrassed.

She shakes her head with determination. “No, it wasn't. Not many people would have done it.”

Killian objects softly, “Maybe people are kinder than you think, Emma.”

 _Not people,_ she thinks, _but maybe you are._ “Hmm,” she hums, “So you're saying you're not too good to be true?”

He steps slowly into her personal space, after scrutinizing her closely and reading the invitation in her eyes, before he replies in a low voice, “I'm as bad as they come.”

She huffs a nervous little laugh. “That's a relief.”

Clearing his throat, he scratches behind his ear again, and she's finding that quirk of his more and more endearing. “Now, ah, if you were so inclined as to give me a second chance,” he all but stammers in his usual, slightly outdated manner of speaking, “I would love to ask you out... for a drink, or dinner, or whatever you'd feel comfortable with.”

Emma smiles and shakes head once. “No.”

That obviously hit him unexpectedly, the disappointment clear on his face, mixed with the tiniest bit of confusion. He blinks a few times before he licks his lips and nods, taking a step back and trying to scramble his wits together. “Of course. I understand. I apologize if I overstepped–”

“Oh, no!” she interrupts quickly. “You didn't, and you clearly _don't_ understand.” He narrows his eyes, trying to follow, and tilts his head in a questioning way. “I'm just as responsible for our bad start,” she explains. “And since you already invited me today...”

She licks her lips again a little nervously, and a dazzling smile breaks out on his handsome face when he seems to understand where she's aiming at. He lifts his eyebrows and inclines his head in the tiniest, encouraging nod; Emma raises her hands. “Okay, I'm not offering to cook for you, because that might just... make for a second bad start, and I really wouldn't want to risk that.” He grins and averts his eyes for a split second. “So, here's the thing,” she goes on. “My best friend – actually, she's more like a sister to me – is hosting a Christmas dinner slash party tomorrow, for family and friends, and she's a really good cook, and the people are all nice, and...” Suddenly she notices she's rambling and presses her lips together, stopping herself for a moment, before she finishes. “Would you like to go there with me?” she blurts out a little abruptly before she can get scared of her own courage.

Killian smiles brightly, and how has she never noticed how blue his eyes _really_ are? Fuck it, maybe they _are_ the bluest eyes she's ever seen; it's safe to admit it now, right?

“I would love to,” he finally answers, “but I also wouldn't want to intrude...”

She waves him off. “Oh, Mary Margaret has been waiting like _for ever_ for me to bring someone to one of her dinners, believe me, she'll roll out the red carpet for you.”

He takes a step back into her personal space – again slowly, carefully, and only after checking her expression and posture. She's anything but put off by it. “Someone?” he echoes. “As in...?”

Emma feels a slight blush rise in her cheeks. “Well, not just _anyone_.”

“Perhaps someone you'd... date?” he asks tentatively, hope shining in his eyes.

On an impulse, she moves in nearer, slowly gravitating towards him, and they are standing so close now that she can feel the warmth radiating off him and smell his scent. It's a very pleasant one, and for a moment she feels slightly dizzy.

“Perhaps,” she murmurs, “even someone I'd...” She sways closer still and raises on her tiptoes while he's almost paralyzed, watching her approach with his breath held in, obviously not daring to move a single muscle. For the briefest moment she hesitates, searches his eyes again. She remembers her first impression about them – the kind of eyes that allow a glimpse into their owner's heart. His look is open and vulnerable and welcoming, and she exhales in relief and determination, closing the last gap between them and sinking her lips against his. The second before she closes her own eyes, she sees his eyelids flutter shut.

It's a soft kiss, yet longing and lingering and promising more. Her fingers close around the lapels of his coat, and she feel his fingers against the back of her head, and she'll be _damned_ if she hasn't always been weak for a guy doing that. His lips feel amazing on hers, gentle, yet firm, and she loses track of time a little. When they finally break apart, their foreheads stay leaned together, and he leaves his hand in her hair, his fingers gently caressing the back of her neck. She feels warm and safe, and butterflies are excitedly dancing in her belly.

In a second of panic, because she's Emma Swan, after all, she asks herself if he expects her to invite him in, and then all of her qualms dissolve into nothing when he asks, “What time do I pick you up tomorrow?” A gentleman indeed. And not only in the bedroom.

“Three,” she replies, still a little breathlessly.

“I'll be here,” he promises and runs his nose along hers before he takes a step back. “Good night, Emma.”

“Good night.”

Like an idiot, she stands there, her eyes fixed on him, without moving while he walks backwards to his own door.

He snorts an adorable little giggle through his nose, and finally, he says it.

“Swan. You're _staring_.”

 


End file.
